


clarity

by r1ker



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-20
Updated: 2015-04-20
Packaged: 2018-03-25 00:46:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3790345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/r1ker/pseuds/r1ker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>he goes home and even there wilson stays in his mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	clarity

Wesley's allowed to leave at midnight, decidedly two hours ahead of schedule, and before he drives away and home to what he's sure to be the best shower and sleep of his life, he lingers in his car.

 

His foot's on the brake and his hand lingers on the key in the ignition. His mind's somewhere else, caught up in the sixteen hours he just spent with Wilson, and the surely unrequited love he has for him. It's childish and something not of this profession, but it's something he's going to have to deal with should he continue on assisting him in turning around the deteriorating Hell's Kitchen.

 

Wesley yawns and stretches as best as he can from his spot in the driver's seat. He puts his car into reverse, backs out of the driveway to Wilson's studio, and makes his way on home.

 

God, it's eating into him even as he stops at traffic lights. He can't stop thinking about Wilson, and for a second he dismisses it due to worry. The war between their people and the mask is heating up, no doubt; the last few days have resulted in altercations in the streets and he's been working his ass off to make sure nothing goes any further south than it's going now.

 

Wesley goes for the radio, turning on some sort of easy listening to provide background noise to the static his brain has been reduced to. Fortunately, he's home in no time, free to walk up the stairs to the front door with his thoughts muffled. 

 

Living alone has its perks. He's able to get undressed the second he's put his messenger bag on the bench in the hallway, and he sheds his button down and undershirt without another word, walking around aimlessly for a few minutes. He wonders if Wilson lives the same sort of bachelor life he has. No way, a man so businesslike wouldn't be caught acting in such a fashion, now down to his boxers and standing in front of the mantel blankly. 

 

Wesley decides to run a bath before he's too caught up to wash the filth of a long day off. In his cabinet he finds a long-abandoned bottle of Mr. Bubble his mother possibly snuck into his boxes when he moved into his own place. He goes for it and pours a small amount of it beneath the tap, watching the tub fill with suds and the room with the smell of saccharine sweet bubbles. He sheds the rest of his clothing and stands stark naked on the rug, waiting on the tub to reach fullness. 

 

Wesley turns off the knob when the water has nearly reached the brim of the tub and he edges in, the water almost hot enough to scald - just the way he likes it. His chin rests on the surface of the water, the rest of his worn body beneath it and relishing in the warmth, and for a second, he almost falls asleep. He's done that before, falling asleep in the tub, something he thought would be completely relaxing but ended up with him waking up an hour later freezing cold and pissed off. 

 

A sudden burst of energy from the water's temperature gets him through washing his face and his hair, adding a little more of the Mr. Bubble to a washcloth to drag over his shoulders and stomach. He dries his hands off and goes for his phone, turns on a playlist of a mix of music. Something needs to break the typical bathing sounds that have filled his ears. The first song happens to be one he's heard a thousand times driving to work as one that hangs around for a while in his ears. He sings along as best as he can - again, he lives alone, so who's going to hear him singing "Fault Lines" underneath his breath as he takes a bath?

 

As the lead singers sings about vodka from Russia, Wesley snorts a laugh. Of all times in the day he'd be hearing about Russia again, off the clock, it's during his bath. _I've got a cracked engine block, both of us do._ That line strikes home. Jesus Christ, he's a teenage girl, relating songs to men he's known for seven years and hopes to know better and longer as their relationship progresses. The song speaks of sugar in proverbial fuel lines and Wesley likes to think that's what he's got when he thinks about Wilson. Something's not letting him think properly and he's damning himself for letting this get this far. 

 

It ends and Wesley's just ready to get out of the bath when he feels the need to stay a little longer. He drains the water halfway, allowing him to move his legs and see the rest of his body, now sparkling and dare he say bubbly from the soap. 

 

"Alright, just this once," he tells himself, moving his hand down to his cock. It doesn't take long to get himself worked up and soon he's panting, rearing up out of the tub with his feet braced towards the drain. He has to restrain himself before he seriously falls out of the sloping bathtub. He's into it now, hand flying over his cock, thinking about anything his brain can bring forth to fruition. At first it's just the way Wilson looks, his height and his stance demonstrating his raw power, his rugged face an ideal John Wayne-esque handsomeness, his solid and warm hand resting on Wesley's shoulder as a token of a job well done.

 

The rare times he heard Wilson's voice at its lowest, by far its intensest, a fine vocal gravel coming from his mouth making Wesley's neck prickle with goosebumps. And neither he nor his libido can forget the acts of aggression he saw early on in their partnership, Wilson manhandling and shoving the inferiors that didn't want to fall into line. Wesley almost shouts when he thinks about that, the feeling he had seeing Wilson boss them around, tell them to shut up when they just wouldn't stop interrupting them. 

 

His right foot's stamping at the porcelain beneath it as his stomach begins to knot with what he can only hope is the most intense orgasm he's had of his life. For some reason he starts to get scared, some fear he's had from early on of it being more than his body can handle rising up in his blood. His eyes go to the ceiling, his hand picks up and begins to stroke full length from root to tip, and he's gasping like he's running a full on marathon. 

 

"Oh god, Wilson," he rasps out. His hand pumps a few times, just enough to send him toppling over the edge, a loud breath rushing past his lips. His toes curl once again, bunching up almost painfully, as he comes. He was right; this one lasts for a hell of a lot longer than the other ones he's had. It's a full four minutes of pleasure climbing down the rungs of his spine and over his muscles as they stretch over the bone. It flares up from time to time, leaving him whimpering as he remains tight in his holds but soon subsides. He's left with a belly covered in come, some of it cooling on his thighs and his hand. He wipes it off as best as he can and steps out of the tub.

 

After all, it's looking like he's going to have to have another bath. This time, without the interruption near the end. 

**Author's Note:**

> i'm back with more of this ship
> 
> what can i say, i love my gay sons
> 
> *eyes emoji*


End file.
